Just A Little Too Late
by M.S. Fisher
Summary: Live in the moments. The missing scenes of "Never Too Late" by Breea.


What was with her heart these days? Either it was beating too fast or it felt as if it had stopped. Or a combination of both. Right now she could not decide what she was feeling as she stared at the darkened form of Jon Snow in her temporary bedroom. The moon was behind him, silhouetting him in a silver glow; his head was bowed, eyes averted as she pleaded with him to reconsider.

His fingers tightened around hers briefly and for a moment a flash of hope dared to fly through her. Then his jaw tightened; a resolve crept into his face and she knew then that she had lost him.

"Enough," he ground out, his words sharp and piercing. He dropped her hand as if it burned him and a sob welled in her chest. He rose to his feet, distancing himself from her further. "It is pointless to argue. I've made my decision."

His words couldn't have made any more of an impact than if he had struck her. She felt breathless and for a moment she could only stare up at him helplessly trying to catch her breath. It was over. She was not enough to keep him here.

He did not want her.

_Gods he didn't want her._

"Oh," she meant to say this with some form of dignity, but it had shattered along with her heart – her hopes, her dreams. This wasn't how it was suppose to play out. He was suppose to see her reason – he was suppose to –

"Lylah," Jon hissed her name and she felt his calloused hands over hers. She couldn't see him – just a blurred form that moved toward her. Cradled her.

"Jon," she wasn't sure why she said his name. It came out a broken sob and she hated herself for that, but couldn't hold onto that anger. He was leaving her. And damn her, she was crying because of it.

"I'll miss you," he was whispering in her ear, she felt his breath tickle down her neck. He pressed his lips against her forehead and she found the strength to slide her hands up his chest and grab onto his shirt. "I must go." And his hands were at her wrists, gently pulling – insistent that _she let him go_.

_No._

She tightened her grip, yanked down on the unyielding linen, the fabric straining against her hold. Jon resisted for a moment and blinking away her tears she saw his surprise and uncertainty. Another tug and she tilt her head up, her other hand pulling away from his to tangle her fingers in his dark hair. She drew him down and finally, almost hesitantly, their lips met.

The kiss in the rain had been a quick, awkward meeting of lips. She had barely registered what he had done before it was over and though her mouth had tingled as she rushed home that evening she had forgotten the _feel_ of him. The _scent_ of him. He was everywhere now, his earthy smell with the spice of leather. The scratch of his beard against her skin and she mewled at the pleasure of it.

Neither of them were master kissers nor had much practice been had since the rainy day in the courtyard. This night was different. Jon was _leaving_. This wasn't going to be a quick, chaste kiss that would leave her wondering. This _would not_ be something he would be able to forget while he patrolled the cold and lonely parapets of the north. No, he would not forget. She refused.

She released his collar, only to grip his shoulder and ease him closer. Jon put up no resistance; he gathered her, blankets and all into his arms. She broke the kiss to look him in the eye needing to see that he wanted her. That maybe he needed her and maybe he was wrong. _He was wrong_.

She had heard the kitchen and serving girls speak of the wanting of men. Certainly those girls had experienced it on nights of revelry and drink in the great hall. Her father had always made sure to steer her to her room before things got out of hand, though the stories were told the next dawn with giggles and laughter.

Smoldering. She found the concept hilarious when first told by one of the kitchen maids. Eyes could not smolder, they were only eyes… not embers. But Jon's eyes were burning, smoldering, and they locked onto hers in that moment – that near breathless moment as he shifted her position onto his lap.

_Foolish man_, she thought again, tracing the curve of his mouth with her finger before meeting his gaze. She saw something feral there.

Jon growled. Or was it a groan? But he was kissing her again, hard and soft, all at once and not at all. She couldn't stop herself from gasping when she felt his tongue trace her lower lip and he took advantage, delving and tasting her. He tasted of the woods – the trees and sunlight, the river bubbling over the spackled rocks in the spring. Her heart was racing and she understood the saying of 'butterflies in the stomach'. She shook in his arms, holding and clinging to him – reveling in the moment that would inevitably have to end.

A knock on the door had Jon shooting to his feet and taking several steps away from the bed. Delylah toppled back onto the comforter, legs and blanket flying. Blinking, she pushed herself upright still shaken from the heated kiss that had taken place only seconds earlier.

"Ser, they are waiting for you in the courtyard," came the soft voice of one of the stable lads. Jon's chest was heaving and he was staring at her, not breaking the eye contact she had immediately sought after his unceremonious escape from the bed.

"I'll be right there," He called back his voice calm, though she saw through the façade. His eyes were dark and hungry, flitting to her mouth with an imperceptible flash of longing.

It only took a moment for the reality of the situation to hit Delylah; her softened demeanor hardened. She drew her spine up, trying not to wince as her wound cried out in protest. She didn't want his comfort now. In forcing back the pain she forced back her urge to cry. There'd be time for that plenty. She looked down at the messed up bed, unable to trust her control if she had to watch him leave her.

Jon took a step toward her, the click of his heel loud and sharp in the suddenly silent bedroom.

"Just –" Delylah started before she could stop herself; she knew if he got near her again… She raised a hand against him, willing it not to shake, warding him away. No, she wouldn't be able to stop herself. She flung herself back down on the pillows, gathering the blankets around her pulling them up to her chin. She stared resolutely at the ceiling above her, gathering herself, "Goodbye, Jon."

A heartbeat; she knew how long one was because she felt its painful throb in her chest as he bowed his head and moved toward the door. _Just wait a little longer_, she pleaded with the sorrow threatening to spill over into treacherous tears.

"Goodbye, Delylah," he whispered and the door shut.

He was gone.

And she wept.


End file.
